


Spread Open

by thecoventryconundrum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Gags, M/M, Medical Kink, Public Sex, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:19:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecoventryconundrum/pseuds/thecoventryconundrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Initially based on this kink meme prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=117834015#t117834015</p>
<p>Sherlock's legs are spread open and he is fucked. It catches him by surprise (as in the person who fucks him just suddenly decides 'Hey ...sex' and grabs him). <br/>Bonus one: He is working on a experiment or doing something 'mundane' in the nude and ___ comes in and suddenly just starts doing naughty things to his ass.<br/>Bonus two: AND OR this happens when he is asleep and he wakes up completely disoriented.<br/>--</p>
<p>It started there and then my deranged mind took it elsewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Spread Open 金石为开](https://archiveofourown.org/works/618862) by [kangtacaty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangtacaty/pseuds/kangtacaty)



> This fic is just my excuse to get the smut in my head out. Please note ALL tags.

Sherlock Holmes never sleeps much. It’s a colossal waste of time. He only fulfills this demand of his body as efficiently as possible, falling into short but deep, near comatose sleep. 

So it’s with confusion that he’s being nudged awake, his body swaying up and down his bed in rhythmic motion with his face turned partly down into his pillow. There’s a swirling heat growing in his belly he’s beginning to recognize as arousal, a sense of being filled with something warm thrusting gently in and out of him. His legs are splayed wide apart, his arse held up high with the pillows under his pelvis. He can feel his own erection grinding into the cushion, not enough friction to get him off but enough to push him higher into a state of want. 

Thick cock grazes his prostate and Sherlock can feel himself whining out little pleas for more. The motion speeds up moving from slow and gentle to energetic snaps of hip pounding into his tight hole. All he can concentrate on is the feeling of the pulsing member fucking him into the cushions, rough hands gripping his hips tight enough to bruise. He tries to snake a hand to touch himself but his wrist is grabbed, held down tight to the bed. He’s whimpering with the need to come but all he can do is grip the sheets, tightening his body around his partner until he hears a soft ‘fuck’ from above. Along comes the deepest push so far and a warmth splurting into him. 

It’s John. Sherlock comes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief references to prostitution.

It’s starting to become a habit. Sherlock sleeps more frequently now or more accurately, goes to bed on more nights than not. There’s no guarantee whether or not he’ll wake to John fucking him awake but it's happened enough times that Sherlock feels the incentive to at least try going to bed more often. He hasn’t figured out John’s pattern to his… indulgence. John hadn't tried to talk to him about their recent activities and Sherlock isn’t quite sure how to broach the topic. He's not even sure if he wants to. 

John hasn’t changed his interactions with Sherlock in any other way since that first night after he’d left Sherlock gasping into the pillow from climax. He had simply pulled out, gently wiped Sherlock clean with a moistened washcloth and rearranged him comfortably under the covers, and left for his own room after a surprisingly gentle kiss on his forehead. Bewildered but feeling loose from the effects of the mind blowing orgasm, Sherlock had fallen back asleep until morning. John had asked him if he wanted tea the next morning and chided Sherlock for his minimal food consumption. 

Sherlock had folded himself onto the couch and assessed this new development. The problem was, the data available had only led to more question. Was John unaware of what had transpired the previous evening or merely refusing to acknowledge that it happened? Had he engaged Sherlock in an unconscious state for sleep-sex? Was it a kink for dubiously consensual sex that Sherlock had not somehow managed to deduce before? Did he only want Sherlock when he was asleep, helpless, or would John help himself to Sherlock’s body in other contexts as well? 

Did John want to take him again? Sherlock hoped John would take him again, use his body as Jonn demanded. There's nothing he would have stopped John from doing to him. He didn't want to. He'd learned during his two short relationship back in Uni that tender love-making wasn't for him. 

Where Victor's gentle kisses and murmured sweet nothings had bored him endlessly, Sherlock had arched into Seb as he pounded Sherlock into climax, handcuffed to a cheap headboard. Seb had used Sherlock's body for his own pleasure without any real regard for whether Sherlock enjoyed himself. He'd never gotten over how much he enjoyed that sense of being dominated, of completely availing his body for the pleasure of another, of the clearing of his mind at the end of each of such session. It couldn't last of course. Seb has always been such a pompous little git and his predictable repertoire of bedroom play had quickly bored Sherlock out of that arrangement. Really. How long were a pair of hand-cuffs and telling him to 'take it, slut' supposed to be interesting. 

Mycroft had been horribly condescending about Sherlock's preference for 'that sort of thing.' Mycroft has surprisingly vanilla tastes when it comes to sex, seeking his petit-morts on fine Egyptian sheets, in his feminine assistant, with an occasional tumble behind the tinted black windows of his ubiquitous black cars as the highlight of his dull routine. Mycroft's opinions meant nothing of course but Sherlock still found himself unable to seek out suitable partners after the post-Sebastion shouting match. Shouting on his side. Sneering on Mycroft's. Instead, he'd filled the void with seven percent solutions and after that, the Work. 

A decade after Seb, he was finally getting what he needed again. The interspersed random encounters with strangers had never been enough. They were fleeting and though he didn't delete some of the more memorable experiences (i.e. the dealer who liked to push Sherlock to his knees and grabbed Sherlock's curls to face-fuck him; the closeted informant who gagged him with a tie and slipped his dick between Sherlock's slicked thighs, completely silent during the whole encounter), those exchanges had been merely that, exchanges of services for goods. 

John doesn't ask for or offer anything new in return. He still makes tea, buys milk, cleans the flat, and yells at Sherlock for leaving un-labeled body parts in the fridge. There's no change in the quirked smile of affection as Sherlock rushes them out to crime scenes or the look of genuine awe at Sherlock's deductions. But no rise in the frequency of non-nocturnal physical contact either. 

So far, John's... advances had been limited to the dark of night. It wasn't until Sherlock woke during the fourth session lying flat on his back with an ankle draped over John uninjured shoulder that he conclusively decided that John wasn't having sexsominic episodes. John had tied Sherlock's wrists above his head with his blue cashmere scarf and rocked in and out of his lubed arse excruciatingly carefully for far too long for that episode to have been in a sleep state. Sherlock had slept blissfully content afterwards still leaking John's semen and proudly wore the slightly crumpled scarf out to a crime scene the next day even though it hadn't been that cold. John's face never wavered.

It isn't until a month into this "thing", at a stupidly mundane robbery scene, that Sherlock's content over the status quo comes to a screeching halt. There's a new DI at NSY. And she's clearly a Sub.


	3. Chapter 3

DI Morstan is dangerous.

Sherlock knows this. Even he, with his general disregard of the female form, has to admit that her face is classically beautiful with it's warm brown eyes, delicate chin and full lips. Her shiny blond hair bound up in a loose bun at the nape of her neck look possibly softer than his own somewhat manic curls. Her figure is distinctly feminine even under carefully professional attire and despite what's been going on between John and himself, Sherlock is reasonably certain that John prefers women overall.

Actually, he's not sure if John's attracted to other men sexually at all since he's not sure if it's Sherlock's form that draws John to him or if it's just the appeal of Sherlock's submission in bed.

Either way, Morstan is dangerous. Sherlock notes her infuriatingly inviting body language towards John and quickly deduces that the is Sub flirting heavily with John, his John. John's obviously pulling his out all his Three Continents Watson charm and Sherlock's jealousy springs up uncontrollably.

"John!" Sherlock calls John to him with DI Morstan trailing behind.

"Figure everything out?" John asks, always so accommodating.

"Course. Ridiculously simple." Sherlock can't help snap a bit even knowing this isn't the way to win extra points with John. Instead, he's rushing through his deductions about the robbers' jewelry store employee accomplice in the hopes of getting John away from the DI as quickly as possible.

"That's amazing," Morstan says with a smile on her face. Sherlock's thrown for a split second, ready to give the DI the benefit of doubt until he remembers her for the threat she is.

"Yes. Well. Someone's got to do the thinking around here or none of your cases will ever be solved. Good-bye. Come along John." Sherlock turns around catching the glimpse of hurt on the DI's face. John's spouting apologies and exchanging a few extra words with Morstan as Sherlock walks away. It irks him that John isn't directly by his side and the seconds it takes for John to catch up to the cab feels like forever.

"That was completely uncalled for Sherlock! Mary was being perfectly polite to you. What's bitten you in the arse?" Mary. John's already calling Morstan by her first name. Sherlock was clearly not quick enough if John had enough time to develop first name level of familiarity with that woman.

"I can't help that _Mary's_ an idiot, just like the rest of Scotland Yard." Sherlock sneers Morstan's name. "And I've said far worse things to Lestrade. You never seemed to mind then." Sherlock whips out his mobile and start texting away, signaling that this conversation is over. He doesn't really have any pressing matter he needs to work on but he has to make John stop talking. He realizes that his last statement makes him sound like a over-clingy and jealous boyfriend but can't bear to hear John fawning all over that woman.

More importantly, he needs to think. He can already see where all this will go to if Morstan's allowed to make her move. A few boringly generic dates followed by an invitation up to her flat. John would quickly take to a female partner compatible with his sexual needs with the additional advantage of a potential for future offspring. Her job as a DI would mean that she'd be understanding of the importance of John's work in assisting Sherlock at crime scenes, possibly even needing to join them herself in her official capacity. John would find the balance he needs for adrenalin in the cases and physical intimacy with the DI. He'd leave Sherlock and Sherlock would be alone, again.

No. Sherlock won't have that. He'd simply have to convince John into staying with Sherlock. Make it clear that he can offer more than any silly old woman. That he welcomes John's attentions at any time of the day or night, anywhere, anyway John wants him. That he's a far better Sub for him than anyone else could hope to be.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rope-play. And stuff.

Sherlock’s been agonizing over this all afternoon. As grateful as he is that John hasn't insisted on _talking_  about this, he's frustrated that he needs to figure out how to convey his message without words. What would be the optimal way to present himself to indicate his desire for John to be his Dom without seeming demanding? He thinks John will seek him out tonight since he’s skipped 'visiting' him for a few nights now. Should Sherlock wait in the dark or with the lights on for John to see him waiting? Would John find it presumptuous of Sherlock if he were to wait naked, kneeling by his bed? Like he’s the one who already claimed John as his Dom?

No. It’s John’s choice. John gets to choose whether or not he wants to have Sherlock like this. Just like John gets to choose whether or not Sherlock gets to come, to receive John’s spunk, to suck John’s cock. Sherlock hasn’t been allowed the last yet and he hopes, if he’s good, John would allow it soon. Maybe even tonight.

He finally decides to wait for John naked under the sheets, with a small lamp on to cast a light on the array of toys John might like to use on him next to him on his bed stands. There’s a length of silk rope for if John wants to tie him up, a riding crop, an obscenely red vibrator with a fresh pack of batteries switched in just before bed. John’s lubricant of choice is standing next to an o-gag and one of the many pairs of handcuffs liberated off of Lestrade. Newly acquired anal beads lay next to an adjustable spreader bar. The box of tissues and bottle of water were almost afterthoughts. He hopes the message is clear.

He can’t fall asleep. By the time John quietly walks into his room bare-chested in his pajama bottoms, Sherlock is nervous as a bride on her wedding night, an unspeakably debauched wedding night. John surveys the sight before him, eyes sweeping down Sherlock’s partially bared torso and right leg. Sherlock tries to present himself as prettily as possible, enticingly. John’s pupils are blown open when Sherlock raises his head to the man as John cups his face and kisses his lips. It’s the first time John’s kissed him and Sherlock can’t help but sigh and melt into John’s minty fresh mouth.

“Safeword.” John demands.

Sherlock doesn’t want to give one. How can he offer himself completely to John if John thinks Sherlock can end it at anytime? But John’s commanding tone brooks no argument and Sherlock will not disobey him. “Mycroft” Sherlock responds sullenly, eliciting an amused chuckle from John.

John lays him back down and offers the red vibrator for Sherlock to suckle on. His hands are brought together like in a prayer and John begins to tie him up. It is like a prayer. A prayer onto John. The rope binding his hands loop around his throat and Sherlock can feel himself relaxing into the silky makeshift collar as John criss-crosses more of the rope around his torso.

John binds Sherlock’s erection to his body and stops. The rope isn’t tied off yet so he knows John isn’t done but John is turning Sherlock to lay on his side. He reaches for the lube, slicks his fingers and opens Sherlock up. A blissful sigh slips out. He can’t help it. He normally only speaks when John asks him a question. It’s not his place to make demands and John hasn’t told him that he wants Sherlock to speak tonight anyway.

John’s not massaging his prostate like he wants Sherlock to come from fingering tonight though, just opening him up. A few minutes of careful stretching and John’s pushing the now saliva slicked vibrator into his open hole and turns it on. Sherlock writhes from the low hum of pleasure, moaning and thrusting his hips into the air. John looks pleased as he pushes Sherlock’s knees together, ties them shut and draws them up towards his chest.

John assesses his work tenderly sweeping caresses over Sherlock’s sweat-slick body thrumming from the effects of the vibrator. He finally grasps Sherlock’s curls with the one hand and parts his lips with the other. An index finger slips into Sherlock’s mouth sweeping across his tongue. Another finger joins and Sherlock closes his eyes and lets his suckling instincts take over. Sherlock isn’t sure how long he’s been sucking but when John pulls them out of his mouth, they’re slick and John proceeds to mix the saliva to his lube and pre-cum wet member to stroke himself off.

Sherlock’s mouth is watering at the sight, desperately wishing for a taste, just a chance to lock his lips around the glands and swirl his tongue over the head but John is moving to his backside. The vibrator is still obscenely buzzing away when John plucks it out of his arse. John drizzles more lube down Sherlock’s crack before pushing himself in, Sherlock’s hole relaxed enough to take John comfortably but his arse pushed tight from his still bound knees.

Sherlock’s keening with pleasure as John rocks into him, stroking Sherlock’s freed erection in time to his own strokes. John’s breathy exclamation of ‘Sher. Sher. Sherlock!’ pushes Sherlock to his climax as well, his cum dripping over John fingers.

John doesn't pull out, relaxing inside Sherlock for as long as possible. Later, John frees him from the bindings and makes him drink water while rubbing circulation into his limbs. Sherlock’s so grateful John doesn’t try to wipe away any of the seed still sticky between Sherlock’s thighs. He’s never been happier when John joins him in bed and stays through the night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rimming, medfet, post-fight punishment, make-up stuff.

Sherlock was delighted to find in the subsequent weeks that John is incredibly possessive, protective, and commanding. The Work remained unchanged with Sherlock running through deductions and John following explanation-less orders in complete faith of Sherlock's abilities. But John demanded that Sherlock show his submission in their personal life in a variety of thoroughly dirty ways, most of which left Sherlock tingling with the after effects of orgasm and an ever rising tide of devotion to his Dom. 

\--  
A few days after what Sherlock came to think of as the real beginning of their intimate relationship, John found an extremely frustrated post-shower, towel clad Sherlock checking mud samples from a victim's shoe. He hadn't bothered drying off or changing before tackling the unyielding evidence again. It had been 48 hours of the case going no where with John glancing worriedly at Sherlock's untouched plate of toast and tea. At Sherlock's second frustrated head ruffle and growl in the hour, John had dropped his newspaper, come up to Sherlock and loosened the towel off his body.

"I'm working John." Sherlock stated, irritated at everything.

"I know that Sherlock. I've been watching you work for two days without stopping now. You need something different to motivate you. You can keep working. Trust me." John's voice dipped into his Dom voice at those last two words and Sherlock found himself submitting, curious to see how his Dom would uphold their implicit bargain of non-interference with the Work.

John pulled Sherlock's chair out from underneath him, forcing Sherlock to stand up and bend over to continue his observations. He sat down and started caressing Sherlock's bum, peppering them with kisses, massaging the fleshy mounds until he felt Sherlock's body relaxing incrementally. Finally, he spread them apart to reveal a tight pink hole and buried his face into the crevice to take a sinfully slow, slick swipe.

"Ungh. John!"

"Go back to work, Sherlock. You may speak when you make a breakthrough." How in the :swipe: WORLD did John :nuzzle: THINK Sherlock could think about :oh for the love of tongue thrusting!: MUD when he was doing that! 

A stern "Concentrate, detective" followed a stinging slap on his bottom from John. :a particularly dirty swirl of tongue and the sound of John's trouser being unzipped: "I'm not going to fuck you until you figure this out." Oh God! Sherlock never knew he could concentrate so hard. :John's warm tongue thrusting into him in a regular pattern: Was it seconds? Minutes? :opening him up. making him hard making him wet.: It felt like hours as his mind whirred with information on locality of pollen, proportion of clay to limescale. :making Sherlock ready: Finally, the click of realization came as a distinct metal alloy found in one area of the Thames focused into view. "Yes! I got it!"

And John pushed in, hot and thick and pulsing. Pulling him away from the microscope, bending Sherlock closer to the table, laying his head down and spreading his hands over disheveled papers. 

"Brilliant, Sherlock. You're amazing." Praise spilled from John's lips along with harsh thrusts. Sherlock pushed back into the hands pressing perfect crescent shaped marks into his hips, whimpering rhythmically to the motion above him. "Simply unbelievable." Sherlock had come with chants of John's name and their co-mingling semen dripping down his legs. 

His Dom was an unbeatable conductor of light. 

\--

Then there was the time that John insisted on a physical for Sherlock stating that between Sherlock's history of substance abuse and poor nutritional habits, his body suffered more than the typical 50 year old. John had rewarded Sherlock for his good behavior at every step of the checkup. 

A zero-complaint change into the flimsy hospital gown had earned him an affectionate pat on his bare bottom making Sherlock want to wiggle his bum. John followed that up by carrying what he called Sherlock's "underweight lil' bum" bridal style from the scale to the examination bed after his weigh in. A near chaste kiss followed an examination of his eyes and oral cavities. A blow draw and blood pressure gauge got him toe curling sucks and nips and tongue grazes at his nipples . Palpation and auscultation followed with firm strokes of his dick that John had him continue while checking his prostate. His prostate exam ended with a prostate massage that had Sherlock agreeing to bi-annual or more-as-John-demanded checkups. 

Sherlock would never look at stirrups the same way. John had hooked Sherlock's feet into the curved metal and sat on his stool between Sherlock's legs to finger him mercilessly, crooning that Sherlock was his 'perfect little harlot,' 'so hungry for it,' pecking the inside of Sherlock's thighs with licks and bites until he'd splatter cum all over his belly. John quickly followed in covering Sherlock further with his own cum, jerking himself off staring down at the image his now spent patient-lover. John had insisted on cleaning him off before sending him back to 221B but promised to tape him down to the examination table for his next check up. Sherlock finished four experiments before John got back home riding the morning's high. 

\--

Only once during these first few weeks, after Sherlock had engaged in a particularly ‘Not Good’ flirtation with a rather dangerous suspect for info he could have gotten otherwise was John angry enough to leave him unfulfilled. They’d gotten back home with John quietly fuming at Sherlock’s obstinate refusal to acknowledge his recklessness. 

"You knew he had a gun on him, Sherlock!"

"Ugh! What does that matter! He just thought I was coming on to him!"

"What does that matter? Are you joking! Do you realize how easy it would have been for that homophobic bastard to shoot you? How much danger you were in?"

At Sherlock's refusal to admit to a mistake, John proceeded to none-too-gently strip Sherlock down in the middle of the living room. He bent Sherlock over their table, pressed his thighs together and began to fuck between them with nothing but minimal spit to lubricate. John had stood still completely clothed but for his cock. There'd been none of the usual noises of approval, none of caresses of affection, just brutal snaps of hip grazing Sherlock's perineum enough to leave him frustratingly hard but unattended to. John even pulled away just before coming to shoot his load onto the wooden floor. He zipped his jeans back up, stepped out of the flat and refused to touch Sherlock for the next three days, even taking to sleeping in his own room. 

Sherlock would never forget the shame of standing bent over that table in the middle of the living room, still achingly hard, the air cooling his very dry thighs, alone. Three days later when John’s anger subsided, John had allowed Sherlock to suckle on his prick for an hour on the couch in apology, saying that he’d been angry but that he shouldn’t have left Sherlock like that. That he wouldn't leave again. That he was sorry. That he doesn't want to lose Sherlock and to please be more careful. Surely, Sherlock could understand that he wouldn't know what he'd do without him. He had wept with joy as John’s forgiveness splattered on his face, gratefully lying between John’s knees on the floor and promised to be better as his Dom stroked his hair. 

He should have remembered that to John the word ‘better’ has wide connotations.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Punishment. Spanking. Humiliation. Public sexual activity. Reference to past consensual whipping, gagging, and general dirty talk.

He knows John’s chosen him, Sherlock Holmes. Even now, looking through the stacks of evidence all over Lestrade’s desk, Sherlock bears his Dom's marks all over his body. His nipples are still tender from the clamps John used on him a few night earlier. Small spots on his back still sting from where John had whipped him with the riding crop. And there’s a dusting of light bruises on his hips where John had gripped him hard, fucking him over the sofa armrest, legs opened wide apart with a spreader bar, his face pushed down into the sofa seat sporting a bright red rubber ball gag. His arms still twinged a bit from having had his arms tied behind his back through the whole event. John had described explicitly how much he loved the way Sherlock looked with his mouth stretched over the ball, saying that the stark contrast of the red ball on his pale skin and dark hair made him want to pluck the ball out and fuck Sherlock’s face. But by that point, he'd already been balls deep in Sherlock’s arse nearing climax.

It makes Sherlock warm to think of the steady stream of obscenity that had flown from John’s mouth commenting on how sweet his slutty arse was, how greedy for John’s cock it always seemed to be, how his gorgeous body seemed to be made for a pounding, how it was all John's. With reminders like that to keep him secure, Sherlock knows he shouldn’t be worried. John’s already promised that he wouldn’t leave.

It doesn’t matter. He’s still angry. Morstan’s making a move on his John again if that effected shy tilt of her head was anything to go by. And John, as always, is entirely too friendly for Sherlock’s comfort. He has to keep himself calm with the knowledge that John is his as he glances through files in that cramped office with half of Lestrade's team squished in. Morstan's only the nominal second in command for the case due to her recent transfer. It's really her case, justifying her presence in the room. Donovan and Anderson are just nosy. Another chance to watch the freak perform. He's used to it.

The longer he sits there reading through an all too obvious case with Morstan putting her moves on John though, the more he feels enraged. Pretty soon, he's rationalized to himself that Morstan deserves to be crushed for trying to steal John and words spout out of his mouth. Words berating her for her parlous incompetence as a DI in her investigation of this case, basing it off his deductions about her upbringing in a broken family, her parents’ bitter divorce, her consequentially limited educational opportunities, her inability to maintain a long term relationship. He can't stop himself even as her face is crumbling into a pained expression at Sherlock's implication that her limitations were the reason for her parents as well as her own relational failures, reinforcing her deep seated shame and irrational sense of guilt. Her face turns bright red as she averts her eyes from her colleagues and rushes out the door with mumbled excuses for the ladies room.

"SHERLOCK!"

He abruptly stops as John's furious roar breaks through his train of thought. “Come with me, right now.” John turns to march out the room as if there's no question in his mind that his command will be obeyed. Sherlock ignores the shocked, enraged and embarrassed expressions of the DI's colleagues to follow John. When Sherlock enters the small corner office John's commandeered for this confrontation, the John Watson he meets can only be Captain John Watson, shoulders stiff, back straight and eyes steely hard, disciplinarian in every sense of the word.

"What in God's name was that all about Sherlock? And don't tell me she deserved it for being an idiot because she wasn't even talking to you. Anderson was standing three feet from her and you chose to attack her instead. So tell me. What. Was. All. That. About."

John is pissed off and now, Sherlock's rationale for why that woman deserved to be brought down feels inexplicably weak. He mumbles out his explanation as he's only ever done in front of Mummy and Mycroft as a small boy.

"What? Speak up Sherlock." John's voice, still hard in irritation. It makes Sherlock want to lash back in the offensive.

"She was flirting with you!" He can feel his own face contorted in rage recalling all of Mortsan's blatant displays but John just looks confused.

"What? What are you... Sherlock. Mary was not flirting with me. She was just chatting with me, like people normally do with friends and colleagues."

"Of course she was flirting with you! How can you not see? She wants you as her Dom. You're mine! She can't have you! She can't!" John is frozen, as if Sherlock's words are finally sinking in. Sherlock's lungs feel heavy, like he can't breathe as he awaits John's response.

"Sherlock." John's voice is soft when he finally does speak, almost like a parent speaking to an adolescent child he's disappointed in. "You're telling me that you just eviscerated that poor woman's personal life in front of her professional colleagues because you got it into your head that she's attracted to me. That's not good. You can't go around treating people like that. You need to apologize to her."

"No."

"Sherlock." John entreats

"No. I have the right to retaliate. She started this."

"Sherlock. I'm not going to leave you. You're being unfair." Now he sounds exasperated.

"No. She deserves it for TRYING to seduce you away, period." John's face hardens again.

"You're acting like a spoiled child Sherlock." John's voice is flat with restrained frustration.

"I don't care! I'm not apologizing to her!"

John's expression loses its annoyance, becomes thoughtful and determined instead. His next words are completely unexpected.

"Drop your trousers Sherlock." What? This is hardly what either of them would consider an appropriate time or place for an amorous engagement. Is he missing something here?

John grabs a chair to sit on it and motions for Sherlock to obey his order. "If you insist on acting like a spoiled little brat, I'm going to treat you like one. A good spanking should help you understand what you've done wrong here."

A spanking. In a semi-public place. Sherlock feels slightly panicked. John's assumed his Dom voice now and while he'd never intentionally disobey his Dom, they're in NSY. The door isn't locked and any one of the imbeciles wandering the halls could walk in on his punishment.

What to do? What to do. Does he Safeword?

John doesn't make any move to force Sherlock to comply. He's merely sitting there, waiting patiently for Sherlock to make his decision. Submitting to this punishment would be his choice. A deep breath.

He trusts John to care for him, to do what's necessary for Sherlock, to do what's best for him. Trusts him completely.

He discards his coat, drops his trousers and John guides Sherlock over his lap to face the door. From this position, he would be able to see the expression on an intruder's face were any to walk into this scene, to be humiliated.

John pulls Sherlock's pants down to expose his cheeks. A sharp sting spreads across his bottom as John's hand connects with his bottom. He instinctually flinches away from the hand even as he counts out his punishment. One. Two. Three...

Each smack causes him to grind into John's lap, the friction of the movement building to arousal. His cheeks hurt and he can't help but dread that the sound of John's smacks and his own little pleading whines reverberating through the room are leaking out for others on the floor to hear. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen...

His arse stings so badly but it feels too good each time his erection rubs across his Dom's. It's clear John's affected by the sight before him, Sherlock panting and wiggling in his lap with his pale arse reddened by discipline. He's gripping the edge of John's chair so hard his knuckles are white. He just needs a little more, a little more for release. Twenty eight. Twenty nine. Thirty.

Sherlock almost feel like he's going to cry when John abruptly stops but John brings him to his feet, leans him on a wall and swiftly and silently jerks Sherlock off. Spots dance before his eyes. He's fairy certain he screamed out his climax but he's not sure how loud. His release stains the lower half of his shirt and his pants from where they'd been bunched at this thigh. John wipes his hand on Sherlock's dirtied shirt and allows Sherlock to redress while he calms his own reaction. Sherlock secures his coat tightly around him to hide the evidence of the past fifteen minutes.

John leads them out the room, winding through cubicles filled with various Yard personnel while Sherlock busily attempts to figure out exactly what lesson John was trying to teach him. He's distracted though. He feel the expressions of those he passes on their way back to Lestrade, mostly blank, few curious, a couple scandalized. The sounds obviously traveled. Within hours, everyone in this building would know his private affairs as the gossip-mongers spread their tales.

His face burns in response by the time they re-enter the DI's office where he meets another face, much more composed then last he saw it but still slightly blotchy from the aftereffects of tears shed in private.

Oh. Oh. Oh. This is what John meant by 'not good.'

He's not ashamed of his relationship with John, proud of having such a capable Dom in fact. But it's still humiliating to think that half-wits like Anderson and Donovan would have intimate details of his life to base their judgment on. He feels flush and jittery with embarrassment that people who he doesn't give a damn about now have access to a sliver of his personal life, no matter how pleased about it he is. Mary was ashamed of her secrets. Ah.

Sherlock quickly solves the case in subdued tones without lashing out at anyone else. As Donovan and Anderson file out the room, he pulls Mary aside.

"Inspector Morstan. I... apologize for my earlier behavior. That was... inappropriate of me." Sherlock can see Lestrade's eyebrows shoot up to meet his hairline in surprise. Mary looks ever slightly mollified, less resentful and slightly bewildered. Clearly she's been notified by her colleagues during his short absence not to expect any expressions of regret from the self-proclaimed sociopath. A moment later, she gives a short nod of acknowledgement before exiting the room, responding to John's reassuring smile with a sad little one of her own.

"We'll see you next time you need us, Greg." John tells a still-in-shock Lestrade, winding up their meeting. He clasps his hand into Sherlock's for everyone to see and leads them to the lifts. He looks... proud of Sherlock... in a way he's never looked for any case Sherlock's solved. Softer. More sentimental. He kisses Sherlock in the empty lift with one hand clasped into Sherlock's and the other caressing his face.

Sherlock thinks he can feel his heart squeeze. It feels like it's going to explode.


End file.
